nd soft and silky as the rug I'd
had my hands buried in to keep 'em warm.

Along a long hall and through a great room, whose walls were thick with
books, I was making for a light I could see at the back of the house.
That's where Tom Dorgan must be and where I must be to find out--to
know.

With my hands out in front of me I hurried, but softly, and just as I
had reached the portieres below which the light streamed, my arms
closed about a thing--cold as marble, naked--I thought it was a dead
body upright there, and with a cry, I pitched forward through the
curtains into the lighted room.

"Nance!--you devil!"

You recognize it? Yep, it was Tom. Big Tom Dorgan, at the foot of
Latimer's bed, his hands above his head, and Latimer's gun aimed right
at his heart.

Think of the pluck of that cripple, will you?

His eyes turned on me for just a second, and then fixed themselves
again on Tom. But his voice went straight at me, all right.

"You are something of a thankless devil, I must admit, Miss--Omar," he
said.

I didn't say anything. You don't say things in answer to things like
that. You feel 'em.

Ashamed? What do I care for a man with a voice like that! ... But you
should have heard how Tom's growl sounded after it.

"Why the hell didn't you light out?"

"I couldn't, Tom. I just--couldn't," I sobbed.

"There seems invariably to be a misunderstanding of signals where Miss
Omar is concerned. Also a disposition to use strong language in the
lady's presence. Don't you, young man!"

"Don't you call me Miss Omar!" I blazed, stamping my foot.

He laughed a contemptuous laugh.

I could have killed him then, I hated him so. At least, I thought I
could; but just then Tom sent a spark out of the corner of his eye to
me that meant--it meant--

You know, Mag, what it would have meant to Latimer if I had done what
Tom's eye said.

I thought at first I had done it--it passed through my mind so quick;
the sweet words I'd say--the move I'd make--the quick knocking-up of
the pistol, and then--

It was that--that sight of Tom, big Tom Dorgan, with rage in his heart
and death in his hand, leaping on that cripple's body--it made me sick!

I stood there gasping--stood a moment too long. For the curtains were
pushed aside, and Burnett, Latimer's servant, and the cop came in.

Tom didn't fight; he's no fool to waste himself.

But I--well, never mind about me. I caught a glimpse of a crazy white
face on a